


Valhalla

by Myriath



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, M/M, No Romance, Relationship Only Implied, Spoiler for Hamtunscire Arc, Ubba as the main character, Ubba’s Family, Valhalla, What happens after you die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:34:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myriath/pseuds/Myriath
Summary: ***SPOILER for the HAMTUNSCIRE ARC***I highly recommend playing that first.------In the sagas it was said that death in battle felt glorious. The hero died gloriously at the hands of his enemy, hearing the soft beating of the Valkyries’ wings in his ears as he breathed his last.But sometimes death doesn’t feel glorious at all. Sometimes death is just death. Or is it?
Relationships: Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Ubba (fl. 860s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Valhalla

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenn_Harper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenn_Harper/gifts).



In the sagas it was said that death in battle felt glorious. The hero died gloriously at the hands of his enemy, hearing the soft beating of the Valkyries’ wings in his ears as he breathed his last.  
For Ubba Ragnarsson, nothing about death felt glorious.  
His whole body seemed to be in pain. Where a spear entered his body and where it came out he could not tell; nor could he tell how many there were. After the second, his feeling had left him. All he knew was he must never stop fighting, never let go of the axe. Never lose the axe.  
The world around him had slowed down. Every movement had only a fraction of its usual speed and yet they were all a blur. Metal met metal met skin. Bones broke, blood splattered. A sharp pain coursed through his body. A new wound, an old one? Ubba could not tell.  
Never let go of the axe.  
Ubba tried to grip the handle tighter, but his hand grasped nothing. Where was the axe? Had he dropped it? Had he lost it?  
Pain mixed with panic and the sounds of struggle became muffled. Drowned out by the rush of his own blood. By the sound of his heart beating.  
Ba-boomp.  
Ba-boomp.  
Where was the axe?  
The world became dark. Movements blurred, became one. Colours blended together until they threatened to disappear.  
He reached forward and into the void. Nothing. He reached to the side. Also nothing.  
Where was the axe?  
How would he ever see them again, the people he loved?  
No, he couldn’t go like that. He didn’t want to go like this. Not without his axe.  
The colours disappeared, the world became darker. Black spread, pain gave way to a lightness Ubba had never felt before.  
_Let go, Ubba Ragnarsson. Time to go.  
_No, it couldn’t end like this. Not without his axe.  
Ubba tried to focus, to push back the darkness. A hint of colour returned. The world was distorted, as in the reflection in a fish’s eye.  
Where was the axe?  
The blood rushed, the heart beat. Slowly, powerfully, strained - desperately. A battle raged in Ubba Ragnarsson’s chest, as did the battle around him.  
He had to focus.  
There, a grip. His axe. So close and yet so far.  
Ubba reached out his hand. He had to touch it, his axe. It was right in front of him, not far from him. He had dropped it. He had dropped his axe in battle.  
With his hand outstretched, he felt its presence. It was so close and yet he could not touch it.  
Not much was missing. Just a little bit and he would touch it.  
He felt it, he knew it.  
The colours disappeared, turned grey. The darkness returned.  
The axe was so far, death so near.  
But Ubba Ragnarsson did not want to go yet. Not like this.  
Just a little, a tiny bit was missing. Not much.  
He could almost touch it.  
The blood rushed, the heart beat. Slowly. Weakly. The world was fading, losing shape. Then it went black. And the last thing Ubba Ragnarsson felt was cold, smooth wood touching his fingertips.

The world was black.  
The world was silent.

For how long, he could not say.

The world was black until it turned grey. As if a faint glow of light fell through a slightly open door. Only without colour.

The world was grey.  
The world was empty.

Ubba Ragnarsson did not feel. Did not think.  
Ubba Ragnarsson was dead.

The world was silent.

No sound was heard. No heartbeat, no rush of blood.  
Only the soft beating of wings from afar.

Ubba raised his head. It was easy. Easier than when he was alive. No pain was felt. Nothing was felt. Except for a slight breeze on his cheek, caused by the gentle beating of wings.  
‘Take my hand, Ubba Ragnarsson. The Allfather awaits you.’  
The Valkyrie’s voice was gentle and powerful at the same time. Young and old. Timeless. Just like this place.  
‘Leave life behind.’ The Valkyrie stepped in front of him and looked him in the eye. She had the face of a shieldmaiden, beautiful and deadly. ‘You fought bravely and fell bravely. There is a place for you at the feast table, Ubba Ragnarsson.’  
Fingers clasped his. He did not feel it, he knew it.  
‘Leave life behind.’  
Ubba turned around.  
He saw himself. Impaled like an animal, his body twisted, frozen in one movement. How many spears were there piercing his body? He did not want to count. Ubba Ragnarsson was dead. So were the men and women around him. Had they won or lost the battle? Ubba did not know.  
‘You have fought gloriously. Follow me.’  
The Valkyrie squeezed his hand and he felt it. A touch, gentle and powerful in equal measure, as was the voice of the person to whom the hand belonged. A gentle tug guided him in a direction. To where the grey became lighter.  
But Ubba did not follow, could not avert his gaze. Not from the figure he had spotted among the corpses. Who looked around, searched, stumbled. Who found him and ran towards him. Who screamed, silently. Towards the sky. Who finally threw his head into his hands, whose shoulders shrugged before he looked up again and screamed. His face contorted with a pain that was not inflicted by a wound. A pain that was worse than any wound could ever be. The pain of someone who loved. Of someone who was loved. Of someone who had lost everything.  
‘His day has not yet come.’ The Valkyrie stood beside Ubba. Close. He felt her presence, her warmth. Her face became gentle, she smiled. ‘The Nornir alone know the day he will follow. But now follow me, Ubba Ragnarsson. You are awaited.’  
The hand tried to lead again and Ubba followed this time. Through the black and the grey. Always following the grey. And Ubba followed the Valkyrie. How long he did not know. Time did not seem to exist here.  
The grey became more and the grey became lighter. Warmer. Finally it became yellow. It became light. Warm and inviting, like the light that fell in the dark through a door that was open a crack. Only this door was huge. Bigger than any Ubba had ever seen.

And in that door stood a figure, arms folded.

‘So you really did manage to surpass my end. I am proud of you, little brother.’  
Ivarr Ragnarsson welcomed Ubba. He patted him on the shoulder.

Feelings returned.  
Sounds returned.  
Colours returned.

‘I missed you,’ Ubba said, whispering it, and he felt the weight of the moment. The unspoken words that hung between them.  
‘You fought with honour, Ubba Ragnarsson.’ The Valkyrie disappeared and the door closed behind Ubba.

The world was bright.  
The world was colourful.

Ubba saw more colours, more intense colours than he had known in his life. Ivarr was at his side.  
Ubba Ragnarsson was dead.

‘Couldn’t be without me, I see,’ Ivarr said. His hand still on Ubba’s shoulder. ‘Had to grow just as old as I did. You must admire me a lot, little brother.’  
Then he put a hand on the back of Ubba’s neck, pulled him down to him and pressed his forehead to his brother’s. They stood together, eyes closed. For how long Ubba did not know. It did not matter.  
Neither of them shed a tear, but Ubba knew they were both close to it. He felt the heaviness in his heart, the weight that squeezed it. The lump in his throat. Ubba knew what this moment meant to him – meant to them both.  
‘Am I in Valhalla?’ asked Ubba.  
Ivarr laughed out loud and let go of his brother. ‘Valhalla? You’re nowhere near there.’  
He walked off, nodding for Ubba to follow him. Through colours that took shape and formed a world. A world that was unknown to Ubba.  
Ivarr led him. They walked close together, their shoulders touching and it felt like the past. A past that was now a lifetime ago.  
‘Whether Valhöll or Sessrúmnir, Freyja will decide,’ Ivarr said. ‘Have you never listened to Mother?’  
He nudged Ubba with his shoulder. Not gently, as friends did, but forcefully, as Ivarr had always done. And Ubba had to smile.  
‘Where did you go?’ he asked.  
Lights lined the path. They were warm and gentle, exuding a sense of peace. Flowers grew around them in the meadows that lined the path.  
Ivarr looked at him from the side and grinned wryly.  
‘Valhalla, Ubba.’ He gestured as if his brother had said something incredibly stupid. ‘I am true Einheri of Odin. Was there ever any doubt about that?’  
Ubba laughed. He laughed loudly and he felt his body quiver. He felt joy, lightness. He poked his brother in the side and he felt it. The warmth and resistance, the gentle pain as Ivarr punched him in the arm. The familiar feeling he had missed for so long. So long even before his brother had left him.  
‘Is everyone there? In Valhalla?’ he asked.  
‘Father is there,’ Ivarr said snidely. ‘Hlathgerth too. Arguing as they used to when they saw each other. Dunyat and Björn are there, Fridleiv also.’  
Ivarr hesitated, then smiled. A smile that Ubba had long missed on him. Faint and gentle, barely visible to those who did not know Ivarr. A smile that Ivarr always tried to hide, that he only allowed Ubba to see. ‘He’s here too.’  
Ubba smiled back, cautiously. Suppressed the urge to say something nice. He knew how quickly such moments could turn on his brother. And he was sure that death had not changed that.  
‘And the others?’ he asked. The voice not as neutral as he tried to make it sound.  
‘Eirikr and Agnar are in Sessrúmnir,’ Ivarr replied in his usual snide tone. ‘So is Sigurd. So are Mother and Thora.’  
‘Only Rathbarth and Halfdan are left. Then everyone is here,’ Ubba said.  
‘We can wait a long time for Halfdan,’ Ivarr retorted. ‘The bastard will probably die old and grey, with Faravid by his side, in his bed. Peacefully. With a smile on his face.’  
Ivarr spat on the ground to make it clear what he thought of that. But he couldn’t help a grin.  
‘And Rathbarth, when do you think he will follow?’ asked Ubba, laughing at the idea of how Ivarr would one day annoy Halfdan forever.  
Ivarr rolled his eyes. ‘Dickface will never make it here. It’s a shame someone like him is allowed to call himself a Ragnarsson. We’d rather meet Ragnvald again.’  
‘Ragnvald was a baby.’  
‘Then you know what I think of that bastard.’  
Ubba shook his head. Nothing had changed and he was grateful for that.  
Ivarr led him to a square in the centre of Asgard where many warriors had gathered. Most of them had died in battle, many younger than Ubba was.  
He looked around. The gate to Fòlkvangr was on one side, the castle of Glaðsheimr rose up on the other. Where would he go?

Ivarr boxed him on the arm and nodded to him before leaving his brother’s side and sitting down on the steps to Glaðsheimr, where other Einherjar respectfully made room for him. Ubba laughed inwardly. Many things could be said about his brother, calling him crazy or a monster, but above all he was a legend. Just as he had always wanted him to be. What would they think of Ubba?  
Ivarr watched him, waiting. Impatience was written all over his face.  
Time was passing. Much, little? Ubba could not tell. More Einherjar came, bringing new warriors, new fallen. Unfamiliar faces, but also ones Ubba knew. He recognised a friend of Eivor's whom he had once met in Jorvik. A boy from Ravensthorpe who had once believed in another god and who had left life far too soon. And Soma, an ally whom Ubba held in high esteem.  
They nodded to each other.  
More time passed and more warriors followed. How many there were, Ubba could not say. But there were enough to block his view of his brother and he suddenly felt alone among all the fallen. He felt small and weak, like the day his mother had left him. And though it was warm, he felt the memory of snow on his skin, of cold creeping into his bones. Where would he go?  
The ground vibrated and the gates opened. Freyja came from one side, her boar Hildisvíni on her right. Proud and menacing, it seemed to be eyeing the fallen warriors. Freyja's movements were graceful, but they left no doubt about the power of the goddess. Ubba felt how one wrong word, one wrong look could undo him. Odin came from the other side, accompanied by Geri and Freki. He was no less threatening than the goddess to whom he nodded respectfully.  
The sight of the Allfather made Ubba close his eyes for a moment. The wisdom the god radiated reminded him too much of the man he wanted at his side and hoped not to discover among the fallen.  
Where would Eivor go?  
Where would Ubba go?  
Gracefully, Freyja strode along the rows of the fallen, stopping in front of each one of them, gazing at them. Some longer, some shorter. Some she nodded at, others she shook her head at.  
The ones she nodded at went to the left, to Fòlkvangr. The others to the right, to Glaðsheimr, Valhalla. With each one leaving the square, Ubba was grateful not to see Eivor.  
Freya chose her half of the Einherjar, Soma and Eivor’s friends among them. Ubba went with the Allfather. Ivarr grinned, slapping him on the shoulder with his hand. He did not leave his side. Together they passed through the gate and the world turned black.

The world became coloured.  
The world became colourful.

And the world was filled with Ivarr, who waited impatiently for Ubba.  
‘Are you going to wait here for Ragnarök or are you coming?’ he asked and walked off without waiting for an answer.

Ivarr led him through Valhalla, his gait light, springy, almost prancing. Like a leaf in the wind. They walked along the feast tables with the fallen, the Einherjar. They were all waiting for the one day. Loudly. Laughing, singing. Smacking, belching. Men and women, side by side. They laughed, they ate. They danced. Between the tables, on the benches, on the tables. They drank, ale and mead. Skalds played songs, sang.  
Men shoved each other, fought, laughed and made up.  
It was the biggest feast Ubba had ever seen.  
They walked between the tables. Ivarr took cups, drank a sip, placed them somewhere else. He grabbed a piece of bread and threw it to Ubba.  
He caught it.  
It was warm and smelled wonderful. He tasted it and it warmed him from the inside. It tasted better than anything he had tasted before.  
They passed a brawl. Ivarr stopped, and without warning, punched one of the spectators in the face with his fist. The man looked at him, puzzled, and before he knew it, he had one of Ivarr’s axes in his guts. The man’s eyes snapped open, then he laughed before he went down dead. And Ivarr laughed with him. Loudly, heartily.  
Ivarr was at home here. And so was Ubba now.  
They walked on. Endless rows of tables filled the hall. Everywhere Ubba looked he saw boisterous faces. It was loud, it was vulgar.  
Ivarr jumped on a table, singing, loud and crooked. Danced as he led Ubba on. Stopped and took a horn from the hand of a woman who had just started drinking.  
She looked up at Ivarr, then at Ubba across the table.  
Ice-blue eyes pierced him. Insistent, observant. Ubba knew that look. His skin prickled, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He smiled wryly at the woman.  
The woman’s gaze softened, cheerful. Wrinkles formed around her eyes as she laughed out loud and threw her head back. She leaned towards the man on her right, turned his face towards her and kissed him passionately. Men and women cheered them on and Ubba couldn’t help but laugh out loud. She reminded him of someone he already missed.  
Ivarr jumped from the table and landed light-footed in front of Ubba. He spread his arms and grinned broadly at him. He led him further down the hall to a certain table and sat down.  
There they were. They were all there.  
Hlathgerth was there, Fridleiv at her side. Dunyat was there, holding Björn in a headlock. A friend who had left them far too early was trying to keep his mug of ale away from Ivarr, laughing. Ivarr looked happy. And Ragnarr Loðbrók was there too – their father. He stood up and walked towards him.  
Ubba faced him, muscles tense, while his father looked at him piercingly. Even after death, there was something about the man that intimidated him. Seconds passed before Ragnarr Loðbrók spread his arms and pulled his son into a strong embrace.  
‘Welcome home, Ubba Ragnarsson,’ he said, gesturing for Ubba to sit at the table.  
Ivarr held out to him the mug of ale he had successfully stolen – and half emptied – before taking the drinking horn from Dunya’s hand and offering it also to Ubba, grinning broadly. Ubba took the horn and toasted the others. The mead was good, sweet and strong. They drank, they laughed, until the horn sounded.

Ubba looked up and saw the Allfather rising from his table.  
Odin addressed the Einherjar, welcomed the newcomers, spoke of battle, of glory and honour. And when the highest of the Æsir raised his horn and they all joined in, the smell of freshly roasted meat rose to Ubba’s nose.  
They ate of Sæhrímnir and Ubba was sure that he had never tasted anything so delicious before.  
‘So?’ Ivarr asked, putting an arm around his brother’s shoulder.  
‘Better than gruel with eel,’ Ubba returned.  
Ivarr playfully pulled his face into a pout before laughing off again and nudging Ubba.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Ubba watched the Allfather give his share of the food to his wolves, while Huginn and Muninn landed on his shoulders and whispered to him. Or croaked? Ubba was not sure.  
The High One frowned, he grinned, and he laughed – reminding Ubba of someone he hoped to have to wait a long time for.  
Dunyat bent over the table and got Ubba’s attention. He demanded stories from Midgard, from his brother’s life. The saga that ended here. In Valhalla.  
The evening turned into night. They ate and they drank. They drank and they laughed. They laughed and they sang.

The world was loud, the world was colourful.  
The world became blurred and began to sway.  
The world became black.

The world became bright.  
It was warm and soft.  
A new day began and reluctantly Ubba left the bed that was now his. Soon the horn would sound. They would train and fight. Some would fall. And in the evening, those who survived the day would dine and feast together.  
The next day they would all be together again, training again, fighting, falling, feasting. Those who fell, those who survived. Every day a new chance.  
And one distant day, if Freyja allowed, Eivor would be at his side.

Ubba Ragnarsson stands up, puts on his clothes and braids his hair. Then he goes to his axe, which is faithfully waiting for him at the door. The axe he had lost and found again. He tenderly strokes its smoothly polished wood with his hand. It is his dear companion, which had been at his side all his life and always remained with him – even after death. He fastens it on his back.  
Ubba leaves his room and follows the corridor outside to the courtyard. There they stand. Ragnarr and Hlathgerth. Fridleiv, Dunyat and Björn. They are all waiting for him. Ivarr stands at the side of an old friend who had left them far too early. Ivarr seems happy. In one hand he holds his favourite axe, ready for the day that awaits them, the other has its little finger hooked with that of another hand.  
Ubba grins at Ivarr and Ivarr grins back.  
He is sure one day Eivor will be at his side.  
They walk off and enter the great hall.  
Ubba follows them and draws his axe, ready for the day to come.

_Then horns resound the mighty hall. For those who fight, for those who fall._

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve shamelessly made use of the Prose Edda, the Poetic Edda, the Tale of Ragnar’s Sons – and possibly some other sources that I forget to mention at this moment – to build the afterlife.
> 
> \------
> 
> The death of Ubba was probably one of the hardest in the whole game. Because it just happened while we weren’t there and couldn’t say goodbye.  
> No last words, no funeral, nothing. The death just happened.  
> I really hope you like this attempt to say farewell to him.


End file.
